


Pluck

by slipstream



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Anxiety Disorder, Chatlogs, Gen, Hair, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Trichotillomania, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipstream/pseuds/slipstream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shaving both sides of your head at least makes the damage look symmetrical, intentional."  </p><p>Dave accidentally finding out about Tavros's trich is just the tipping point of their moirallegiance, not the center of it, but that doesn't mean he won't do whatever it takes to be there for his moirail, good days and bad.  Full list of TWs in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: This fic features characters dealing with trichotillomania/hair-pulling and anxiety/impulse control disorders being triggered, relapsing, and later working through that trigger. Some disordered/self-harm focused thought patterns in the second person.

You don’t even notice that you’re doing it half the time. It’s only later, when you catch a glimpse of your reflection and see the extent of the damage—the patch of hairless scalp that’s bloomed from the base of your right horn, spreading like an infection until it meets the top of your ear, stopping just short of your hairline in the front—that you realize you’ve been pulling again. 

Coarse black strands litter your desk, the spaces in between the keys on your husktop, invisible but for the faint white dot of the root along the shoulders of your black shirt. It makes you feel sick just to look at them, acid sack twisting with shame. 

Shaving both sides of your head at least makes the damage look symmetrical, intentional. You stare at yourself in the mirror, itching fingers clenched around the cool porcelain rim of the mounted sanitation basin, mouth watering guiltily as you eye the fresh line of exposed roots. 

Before the night is over you have to shave another inch higher on each side to even things out again. 

 

**== >**

 

Your lusus doesn’t really understand. Tinkerbull can pick up on your feelings, obviously, and on really bad days he knows to stick close, curled on your lap and butting his head against your hands until you busy yourself with stroking him, but the more complex intertwining of the source of your pain and the source of your comfort are beyond him. 

It hurts you, so he wants you to stop.

You want to stop, but it helps you, so you can’t.

Your friends don’t even know. You quit webcamming with them as soon as the evidence of your nervous habit became visible from the front. The first time you meet up with Aradia outside of Trollian she marvels at the smoothness of your skull, the short, neat line of your mohawk, the sharp contrast between it and her own waist-length mop of adventure-tangled hair. 

“You look so tough!” she gushes, fingers trialing along the few stray strands at the nape of your neck. “Like if you got in a horn fight you’re so confident that you’d win that you don’t even need any cushioning or protective covering for your ears!” 

You bare your teeth in a sorry excuse for a grin, fighting the urge to throw up. “Yes, that is, uh, the look, I was going for. A confident haircut for, um, a confident troll.”

Vriska smirks at you like she can see straight through your skull and all the fragile, self-preserving layers you’ve managed to pull around yourself. She chastises your every move, mockingly dissects every wanting part of you: your clothes, your body, your low-class accent and hesitant speech pattern, your pathetic excuse for a personality. If this was a text-based roleplay you’d spend the downtime between turns fretfully picking at your scabs and whatever thin, colorless hairs have managed to escape the expert probing of your fingertips, but it isn’t. You tighten your hold on your lance and portable communicator, palms slick with sweat. 

Gamzee catches you at it, once, almost a perigee after your accident. You’ve been less than conscious for much of that time, rarely leaving your recuperacoon as the sopor and your body work to repair what they can and stabilize what they can’t. Some of your hair has grown back—more evenly on the left, sporadically on the much-abused right—and now that you’re out of your sopor-suspended stupor with nothing to take your frustration out on but your four-wheeled device and the parts of you that can still feel pain you start pulling again with a frenzy. 

You’re watching a movie together on your husktop, your broken body arranged carefully on a pile of plushes and dirty clothes, the room dark but for the blue glow of the screen. Even though you feel safe here, protected, flanked by the dark, Gamzee’s cool, bony frame, and the warmer lump of Tinkerbull against your side your hand drifts upward to pet along the side of your face, the thick prickle of your eyebrows, the softer contrast of your lashes, the now-alien sensation of fuzz flanking the un-geled flop of your mohawk. 

The first pull stings, but only a little. The next pull is better, a short tug and the faintest of clicks as the hair is plucked from its follicle, and the next—

A hand closes suddenly around your wrist, pulling it away. 

“Tavbro, what the motherfuck’re you doing?”

You blink, unaware how deep in your own head you were until you were yanked abruptly back to reality. Gamzee’s face is twisted into a puzzled frown, and you flush to realize that he saw you, he _saw_ you, and why is he _looking_ at you like that, why won’t he let go of your _hand_ …

A spike of something black cuts briefly through your embarrassment, but you quickly drown it in remorse.

He doesn’t fight you when you twist your hand away. 

“Nothing,” you say, eyes boring blindly into the screen in front of you. You rub restlessly at the knees of your jeans, trying to relieve some of the tingling tension in your fingers, burn out the rapid, fluttery feeling in your thorax. “It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t mention it again. You don’t think that he’s forgotten, not judging by the way he chews his lip sometimes when he looks at you, but it’s like he doesn’t know how to approach it and so settles on trying to cheer you up in other ways, rap battles and idle gossip and optimistic musings on the motherfucking miraculous wonders of the world around you.

You appreciate the effort, even if it doesn’t always work.

 

**== >**

 

You barely pull at all during the Game. 

You’re kind of too busy trying not to die, plus Vriska’s there dogging determinedly at your heels. While she’s made broad hints about knowing exactly what it is you do when the world gets too bright and anxious the thought of her actually _seeing_ you do it is too mortifying to even contemplate.

Then some really awful things happen, and you’d rather sleep and sleep until nothing feels quite real anymore. And then you’re kind of dead for a while, which isn’t so bad, because a lot of the things that make you pull aren’t there to hurt you. 

But nothing really lasts forever. 

You come back. A little older than you were before, a little better than you’ve been in a long time. A little. On good days you almost forget about it completely, the thrill of your new friendships still so fresh and gleaming that it eclipses just about everything else. It makes the bad days feel all the worse, in comparison, like the part of you bent on distraction via self destruction has to work doubletime to make up for the lull of recovery. But most days exist somewhere in between, all too aware of how tenuous of a balance it is and cautious to dole out optimism for the future. 

Still, despite everything, you’re getting better.

One day at a time, you’re getting better.

 

**== >**

 

\-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:37 --

AT: hEYYY,  
AT: i WOULD LIKE, iF I MAY,  
AT: tO TAKE YOU, oN A STRANGE JOURNEY,  
AT: aND BY STRANGE JOURNEY I MEAN, uHH,  
AT: bESIDES AN OBVIOUS REFERENCE TO ONE OF THE FEW OF YOUR HUMAN MOVIES,  
AT: tHAT MAKES ANY SENSE, lIKE, aT ALL,  
AT: aN OUTING, oF SORTS, tO THE FINEST OF ALL YOU CAN CONSUME, fOR A REASONABLE COVER CHARGE, bUFFETS,  
AT: aND BY YOU I MEAN, yOUR AUDITORY RECEPTIVE TUBULES,  
AT: pROVIDED THEY ARE CLEAN AND, dEVOID OF WAX,  
AT: sO I MIGHT SERVE THEM PLATTER AFTER STEAMING PLATTER OF SUPERIOR CULLINARY GRUBFEASTS,  
AT: aND BY THAT I MEAN,  
AT: yET ANOTHER MUSICAL TRACK CHOSEN FOR YOU,  
AT: bY YOURS TRULY, iE, mYSELF,  
AT: http://www.trolltube.com/watch?v=jsrCpRTSJ2E   
TG: what the fresh fuck am i listening to   
AT: sO DO YOU, uH, lIKE IT,    
TG: like it  
TG: it is the most godawful thing  
TG: no joke the gravest of insults to ever have ever been heard by any being living or dead  
TG: theres no baseline just a tiny dude standing in my ear canal with one white glove off smacking at my eardrum over and over and over again  
TG: this miniscule aristocratic piece of shit is challenging me to a duel and not taking no for an answer  
TG: the strings are all over the place and scratchy as all hell  
TG: its like a goddamn cricket orgy in an echoey subway station  
TG: while the downtown express is rumbling by stuffed full of overpaid day trader assholes all wailing on each other with their overstuffed briefcases  
TG: that’s the horn section btw  
TG: and in the meantime some fucker on lead vocals is strangling a duck in front of the mike oops i mean doing some bizarre mix of throat and scat singing in alternian that probably requires two voice boxes to pull off properly much less improperly like this technicolor trainwreck of tortured time signatures  
TG: all in all its an absolute horrorshow  
TG: i fucking love it   
AT: aAAAHAHAHAHA,  
AT: i KNEW YOU WOULD, };)   
TG: seriously though bro what the fuck is this its wacked as balls   
AT: iT’S A CLASSIC OF ANCIENT SLAM POETRY,    
TG: it sounds like opera    
AT: iT IS, uH, oPERA,    
TG: lol figures  
TG: i cant say that im surprised what with the horns and all makes sense that would be something all yall were into    
AT: i DON’T REALLY UNDERSTAND THAT REFERENCE, aT ALL, aND CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH, uM, tHE COSTUMING TRADITIONS, aSSOCIATED WITH YOUR HUMAN VERSION OF THE GENRE,  
AT: bUT THEN AGAIN, lIKE I’VE SAID BEFORE, i DON’T REALLY UNDERSTAND WHY HUMANS CONSIDER OPERA AND SLAM POETRY,  
AT: oR RAP, aS YOU CALL IT,  
AT: bECAUSE SLAM POETRY IS ALSO SOMETHING HUMANS HAVE, bUT DIFFERENT,  
AT: sOMEHOW,  
AT: aNYWAY,  
AT: wHY YOU CONSIDER THEM, sO RADICALLY DIFFERENT,    
TG: is that why you sent this to me  
TG: i mean other than as a vicious attack on my most precious of possessions referring to of course the perfect porcelain conch shells slapped onto the side of my face  
TG: you challenging me to a rap battle bronhildr    
AT: hA,  
AT: iT WOULD BE FAIR TO SAY,  
AT: tHAT MY INTENTIONS WERE, lESS THAN PURE,  
AT: wHEN IT CAME TO THE POSSIBILITY OF DUELING RHYME MODI, i MEAN,   
TG: well shit son lets not beat around the bush any longer  
TG: mike check one two one two a/s/l/preferred tempo  
TG: how about we pull something from this sick piece of culture youve seen fit to share with the class   
AT: sOUNDS GOOD, tO ME,  
AT: uH, i MEAN,  
AT: iF YOU INSIST, tHAT THIS TRYST,  
AT: sHOULD CONSIST, oF A LIST,  
AT: iNG OF ALL YOUR MANY FAILURES,  
AT: dON’T EXPECT ME TO BE BAILING,  
AT: yOU OUT WHEN THE BEAT,  
AT: kNOCKS YOU RIGHT, oFF YOUR FEET,  
AT: iT’S ELITE, fRESH FROM THE STREET,  
AT: rATTLE YOU RIGHT DOWN TO YOUR MEAT,  
AT: tIL YOU BLEAT OUT IN DEFEAT,    
TG: tav my man thats a good play on words but  
TG: to be frank it aint nothing ive not heard like  
TG: a million times already though ill grant your flows steady  
TG: enough for a troll who wants to climb my pole now  
TG: lay back little grub while i step up like dub and  
TG: serve you a cup of shut the fuck up  
TG: this shits fresh from the teat  
TG: now hows that for a bleat   
AT: wHEN THIS ORAL TRADITION,  
AT: lEADS TO YOUR AURAL ATTRITION,  
AT: mAYBE YOU’LL START TO LISTEN,  
AT: sTEAD OF FLAPPING YOUR DENTITION,  
AT: sERIOUSLY, ALL I’M HEARING, fROM YOUR JAW,  
AT: iS SOME BULLSHIT “blah blah blah”,  
AT: dON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING, uH, BETTER,    
TG: my bro you say you want better well  
TG: prepare for an onslaught of red letters cause  
TG: this shit here just got real here’s the deal hope you feel  
TG: down for some real crushing shit the kind  
TG: of rhyme that leaves you spitting out  
TG: all the teeth i just knocked loose  
TG: refuting your mouth-spewn refuse  
TG: btw  
TG: sorry in advance that you thought you had a chance and  
TG: sorry if my flow settles deep and starts to grow shooting  
TG: sprouts of self-doubt that knock you right the fuck out leave you  
TG: staring at your reflection lost deep in introspection  
TG: as you tear at your hair wondering “wHERE, dID I,    
AT: wHAT,    
TG: uH, gO WRONG,”   
AT: wHAT DID YOU JUST,    
TG: here’s a hint me to you don’t take so long to respond dude  
TG: it just give the other guy time to think but  
TG: if you shoot back in a blink then  
TG: your rhymesll be fresher no pressure just imparting   
AT: nO,  
AT: sTOP,    
TG: some  
TG: whats up dude not like you to up and call time out mid battle   
AT: oKAY,  
AT: i JUST,  
AT: fUCK, }:(  
AT: tHAT WAS, a PRETTY TERRIBLE THING TO SAY,  
AT: wHAT YOU SAID,  
AT: jUST THEN, aND,  
AT: wHOEVER TOLD YOU, aBOUT THAT, iS PRETTY TERRIBLE, tOO   
TG: told me about what   
AT: uHHHHH,  
AT: uM, 

\-- adiosToreador [AT] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:51--  
\--adiosToreador [AT] logged off at 22:51--

TG: no seriously i  
TG: what the hell

 

**== >**

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering adiosToreador [AT] at 2:04--

TG: shit shit shit i am the biggest fuckup and king insensitive douchebag of all new skia  
TG: tavros  
TG: tavros i am so fucking sorry  
TG: you dont have to respond or anything i just  
TG: i hope youre okay  
TG: fuck

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering adiosToreador [AT] at 2:39--  


 

**== >**


	2. Chapter 2

\-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:03 --

AT: hEY,  
TG: sup  
TG: havent seen you on in a while  
AT: yEAH,  
TG: you doing okay  
TG: or better than when i went and made even a bigger ass of myself than usual at least  
AT: yEAH, i'M, uM,  
AT: bETTER HAS BECOME, kIND OF A LOADED TERM, cONSIDERING,  
AT: bUT,  
AT: i'M FEELING, lESS LIKE I’M GOING TO, pUKE UP MY OWN RIBCAGE AND, sPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST,  
AT: sORRY, tHAT WAS, uH,  
AT: kIND OF GRAPHICLY PALE CONFESSION OF FEELINGS, cONSIDERING HOW WE AREN’T REALLY, uMMM,  
TG: naw man whatever the spirit moves you to type is all fine and dandy by me  
TG: fuck ive been chatting too much with our freaky clown friend as of late  
TG: facepaint mcgees starting to rub off on me  
AT: hA, }:)  
TG: dude  
TG: so  
TG: i know i spammed the everloving hell out of your inbox for a day or two saying this  
TG: at least before i wised took my keyboard out of my ass and quit trying to make this clusterfuck all about me and my need to apologize and right my wrongs  
TG: inadvertent or otherwise  
TG: but i really am sorry  
AT: nO IT’S, oKAY, aND,  
AT: tHANKS FOR GIVING ME SOME SPACE, uH, aFTERWARDS,  
AT: bY THE WAY,  
AT: iF YOU EVER WANT TO TALK ABOUT, uM, tHE IMAGERY, aND METAPHOR, yOU TEND TO GRAVITATE TOWARDS WHEN YOU’RE FEELING, pARTICULARLY SELF FLAGELLATIOUS,  
AT: i'D BE WILLING TO TRY AND, hASH THAT OUT WITH YOU,  
TG: you know my first instinct is to say no  
TG: no no hell fucking no  
TG: yank all my limbs back into my turtle shell and speed slide the fuck away  
TG: knocking koopas out left and right  
TG: maybe take out mario in a fit of pique if i ricochet off a wall or some shit  
TG: but im finally starting to internalize enough of the shit rose has been spewing at me since we first took off our qwerty training wheels to recognize that that instinct maybe isnt the best  
TG: so  
TG: instead ill say yeah  
TG: but later cuz this shits not about me right now  
AT: oKAY BUT, bEFORE WE GO ANY FURTHER,  
AT: i JUST, nEED TO REINTERATE, fOR THE RECORD,  
AT: nOBODY HAD ACTUALLY TOLD YOU ABOUT MY,  
AT: uH,  
AT: wHEN YOU,  
AT: yOU KNOW,  
TG: shit no  
TG: and if they did and id known thats not something i would have tossed out there to try and put you down  
TG: thatd be some real sick shit on my part im talking a downright terminal case of dickprince-itis  
AT: sORRY BUT I JUST, nEEDED TO KNOW,  
AT: fOR THE SAKE OF FUTURE RAP-OFFS AKA, tHIS FRIENDSHIP  
AT: wHICH, i REALLY, dO ENJOY,  
AT: eVEN IF YOU SOMETIMES SAY THINGS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO, uM, hIDE FOREVER,  
AT: oR PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE,  
AT: nO OFFENSE,  
TG: none taken  
TG: christhumping smutbuckets nitram when i get you with a barb and you reel around only to come back swinging a fistful of rhymes  
TG: and sometimes its brass knuckles but sometimes its fairy dust and i can all but see that little twinkle in your is   
AT: >:?  
TG: your eyes  
TG: your i’s  
TG: end temporarily employed punctuation for the sake of wordplay  
TG: anyway when you snap back with a choice crack like that and everything about your cadence just screams out swagger and pomp like you just served my ass on a silver platter norman rockwell style to a table full of agog propaganda polished spectators just drooling over the choice glaze on that plucked poultry  
TG: when youve done good and know youve done good  
TG: drawn a line in the sand with your swordpoint and rallied all the little lost boys at your back  
TG: and ive gotta think quick if i want to parry that thrust  
TG: i live for that shit  
AT: i WISH THAT YOU WOULDN’T, sHIT WITH ME,  
AT: oR TRY AND BLACKFLIRT AT THIS SPECIFIC POINT, iN OUR TIMELINES,  
TG: trust me neither shitting nor blackflirting is on the agenda for today  
AT: wELL THEN QUIT CODDLING ME, oR,  
AT: wHATEVER THIS IS,  
AT: i DON’T LIKE IT AND,  
AT: yOU’RE NOT, mY MOIRAIL,  
TG: yo you keep saying that  
TG: tossing it down on the table one card at a time  
TG: what are the house odds like mr dealer should i call blackjack or fold my hand and leave the table  
AT: ,,,  
AT: i DON’T KNOW, eXACTLY,  
TG: thats fair  
TG: but yeah nobody told me  
TG: dont think they even realize actually  
TG: well except for makara  
AT: wHAT,  
AT: wHEN DID YOU TALK TO HIM, aBOUT THIS,  
TG: normally this is where id think oops and thank bro almighty and his heavenly porn puppet choir for my poker face  
TG: except that sounds like im trying to hide something from you which im not  
TG: when you logged off i couldn’t figure out what might have spooked you let alone why  
TG: so i asked around a bit don’t worry no details  
TG: just putting my feelers up sniffing the wind to see if there was anything you specific or alien general i tripped over that was otherwise common knowledge  
TG: dont tell them i said this but jesus some of your friends are downright terrifying  
TG: clownshoes and indiana jones in particular  
TG: though to be fair to crabcrotch in between the tsunami of insults he hurled at me you and life in general  
TG: you know  
TG: like he does  
TG: he promised to feed me each of my toenails over the course of an elaborately prepared ten course feast  
TG: toes still attached to said toenails on alternating courses  
TG: so hes got your back too  
AT: wHAt DID GAMZEE SAY,  
AT: tHAT HE’S SEEN ME PULL OUT CLAWFULS OF MY HAIR LIKE A FORK-DESTINED WIGGLER, aBANDONED BY THEIR LUSUS,  
TG: fucking hell tav  
TG: for a while i thought I must have been reading too much into things but you really  
TG: fuck  
AT: }:(  
TG: oh fuck man no  
TG: no long horned frowny faces god im fucking this up even more than usual  
TG: im fucking this up so much im admitting it out loud  
TG: alas coolkid reputation i knew him horatio  
AT: dAVE I THINK WE BOTH KNOW THAT YOUR REPTUATION, iS MOSTLY SHIT,  
TG: yeah I know well talk about that later  
TG: but no he didnt say anything like that  
TG: he didnt mention it at all  
TG: it was like this thing he couldnt see or touch or talk about in a way that he could make sense of  
TG: but he knew it was there and he knew it was bad and he knew that it left you “aLl Up AnD mOtHeRfUcKiN tWiStEd InSiDe”  
TG: or at least that was my impression of the situation  
TG: things got all caps on his end for a bit when he found out id hurt you  
AT: oH, tHAT’S, uMMM, nOT EXACTLY GOOD,  
TG: dont worry we patched things up  
TG: eventually  
TG: more or less  
TG: so yeah some of the things he said got me thinking though and after some googling and some one on one roleplay of the so my friend has this problem variety between me myself and the rose shaped part of my brain henceforth known as i  
TG: i kinda figured it out on my own  
TG: and here we are  
AT: wELL I’M GLAD, aT LEAST, tHAT IT WASN’T AS, oBVIOUS, aS I FEARED,  
AT: aND I’LL PROBABLY BE ABLE TO LOOK, mOST OF MY FRIENDS, iN THE EYE AGAIN,  
AT: wITHOUT WONDERING WHAT THEY MIGHT KNOW, oR THINK, aBOUT ME, bUT JUST WON’T CONFESS, tO MY FACE,  
TG: we could get you some shades  
TG: industry secret very hush hush but trust me  
TG: it helps  
TG: between that and the mohawk youll never have to  
TG: fuck i fucked up again didnt i  
TG: stick a feather in my cap and call me karkat vantas  
TG: brb gotta open a memo and berate my past self for being such a complete and total shitwaffle  
AT: oKAY AT THIS POINT I ADMIT THAT, i HAVE NO IDEA, wHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT,  
TG: is this why you  
TG: you know  
TG: got the mohawk  
TG: probably shouldnt have even brought it up   
AT: nO,  
AT: wELL, yEAH BUT, nOT LIKE THE WAY, yOU PROBABLY MEAN,  
AT: iT’S BAD BUT NOT QUITE, tHAT BAD,  
AT: wHEN I PULL,  
AT: oR THAT NEAT,  
AT: i JUST STARTED SHAVING IT SO THAT’D BE EVEN, aT LEAST,   
TG: doesnt that shit hurt i mean fuck  
TG: dont tell anyone shit reputation or no but bro had to buy like a shitton of offbrand johnson and johnsons detangler when i was a kid  
TG: out came the comb and id just bawl and bawl because my rad self was just so sweet and tender my poor scalp just never stood a chance  
TG: way uncool  
AT: nO, nOT REALLY,  
AT: i MEAN, mAYBE IT USED TO,  
AT: bUT IT DOESN’T, aNYMORE,  
AT: iT,  
AT: tHIS IS GOING TO SOUND, rEALLY STUPID,  
TG: dude its okay  
TG: just spit it out  
TG: he says leaning forward chin on hands  
TG: looking at you all earnest and receptive  
TG: not a hint of judgment on this mug it is smooth and calm like a zen pool  
TG: skip your worries across my surface  
TG: sink stone after stone in me im deep enough to take it all  
AT: iT’S JUST THAT,

\-- adiosToreador [AT] blocked turntechGodhead [TG]\--  
\-- adiosToreador [AT] unblocked turntechGodhead [TG]\--

\-- adiosToreador [AT] blocked turntechGodhead [TG]\--  
\-- adiosToreador [AT] unblocked turntechGodhead [TG]\--

TG: take your time bro  
TG: ill lend you some if you need it  
AT: sOMETIMES I THINK ABOUT SHAVING ALL OF IT OFF,  
AT: aLL OF IT, aLL AT ONCE,  
AT: jUST TO RID MYSELF OF THE TEMPTATION AND, tHE OPPORTUNITY,  
AT: bUT THAT JUST MAKES ME FEEL, eVEN WORSE,  
AT: nOT BECAUSE I’D BE, cOMPLETELY BALD, tHOUGH THAT HAS SOME, mIXED CONNOTATIONS, mOSTLY UNPLEASANT, iN TROLL CULTURE,  
AT: bUT BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW, wHAT I’D DO, iF I COULDN’T PULL,  
AT: iTS LIKE, wHEN I DO IT,  
AT: tHERE’S THIS BUZZING, iNSIDE ME, iN MY HEAD AND, mY THORAX,  
AT: lIKE LOW LEVEL ELECTRICITY, tHAT NUMBS EVERYTHING ELSE OVER,  
AT: aND, iT DOESN’T MAKE IT GO AWAY,  
AT: tHE ANXIETY, i MEAN,  
AT: bUT IT MAKES IT EASIER, sOMEHOW,  
AT: aND WITHOUT IT,  
AT: i’M SCARED OF WHAT ELSE I MIGHT DO,  
AT: tO TRY AND FEEL THAT WAY,  
AT: oR NOT FEEL THAT WAY,  
TG: slap my ass down a rung on my echeladder if this is hella uncool and prying but  
TG: are you doing it right now  
AT: nO, bECAUSE,  
AT: i NEED BOTH HANDS TO TYPE, uSUALLY,  
AT: wAIT,  
AT: dAMMIT,  
AT: uGH, cAN WE JUST BOTH IGNORE, hOW DIRTY THAT SOUNDS,  
AT: i AM REALLY NOT UP TO IT, tODAY,  
AT: fUCK THAT SOUNDED, eVEN WORSE, }:\  
TG: what sounded worse all of the things you just typed were totally devoid of any sexual connotations whatsoever

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has gone idle--

TG: sorry i was thinking  
TG: …  
TG: okay  
TG: okay okay okay  
TG: listen up this shits important  
TG: im not rose i mean  
TG: i could fake it fuck knows ive spent enough time kicking it on her metaphorical chintz while she probes my skull like im the cavity sam in a sick freudian adaptation of operation and shes gonna pluck out my charley horse  
TG: shes good at it though ill give her that no zap zap zap flashing red nose of childhood trauma when she does it just smooth and easy as you please  
AT: wHAT,   
TG: sorry sorry im being a rambling self-centered fuck again shutting up now  
TG: okay not really shutting up just shutting down that tangent not the time or the place consider its ass thoroughly planted in the time out chair  
TG: point being  
TG: im not going to try and psychoanalyze you  
TG: thatd probably be less than pleasant for both of us and the exact opposite of helpful  
TG: but  
TG: if you want to  
TG: and if you think it would help  
TG: whenever youre stressed or down or any other time you feel like you need to  
TG: id like you to message me  
TG: so i can try and talk you through it or distract you or whatever the fuck you need  
TG: because this shit has obviously got you down  
TG: way way down  
TG: down in the gutter where you absolutely do not deserve to be  
TG: its just absolutely fucking gutting you  
TG: and that’s just not cool at all  
TG: first off that you have to feel like that and second that youve been hung out on a hook to try and deal with it on your lonesome  
TG: seriously the all time uncoolest  
TG: so message me  
TG: anytime anyplace  
TG: even if im not there man just fill that chat window up with feelings and bad rap or random ass shit you feel compelled to hurl at me  
TG: fiduspawn rules the weather report how much i as a personal representative of the human race suck balls i do not even care  
TG: whatever keeps you typing  
TG: because you shouldnt have to try and tackle this on your own anymore  
TG: and i want to help  
TG: if thats okay  
TG: tavros  
TG: tavros you there

\-- adiosToreador [AT] has gone idle--

\-- adiosToreador [AT] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:16--

**== >**

\-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 4:13 --

AT: oKAY, 

\-- adiosToreador [AT] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 4:13--

**== >**


	3. Chapter 3

You don’t know what exactly this thing you have with Dave is. It looks pale, it _feels_ pale, but you can never quite tell with humans, even the ones who claim to understand quadrants. You do your best to resist the urge to touch, to shush, to burrow your horn beds into his chest and crush his soft head close to your rumbling sternum in return, try to stay content with this verbal camaraderie that’s built up between you. 

Your hair starts to come back in, slowly, almost hesitantly.

You keep shaving it for a while, if only because you don’t actually have to. Then the wild, giddy month where you don’t pull, not even once. When Dave smiles at you, it’s like a key being turned in a lock, and you can’t help but grin carelessly back, laugh as you brush claws through the fuzz of new growth and, for the first time in a long time, don’t register the feeling as temptation. 

You should have known disaster was just waiting for you to drop your guard. 

 

**== >**

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering adiosToreador [AT] at 1:42--

TG: back  
TG: yknow  
TG: from the place  
TG: where we were gonna meet and do the thing  
TG: yep  
TG: that was certainly a thing that didnt happen  
TG: not that ive not been stood up like the best of them or anything  
TG: because believe me  
TG: i have  
TG: got my stand around trying not to look like a mournful puppy on the side of the road face down to an art  
TG: nay  
TG: to a science  
TG: its all cool the shades say  
TG: gleaming dispassionately at the hoard of strangers walking on by  
TG: while inside man inside  
TG: the heart it fucking shatters  
TG: not that im trying to make you up a bed piled high with guilt quilts or anything  
TG: youre your own troll yknow free and easy as the motherfucking breeze  
TG: its just  
TG: youve not been the type to breeze on by a chance to meet at a place and do a thing  
TG: at least  
TG: not with me  
TG: and not when that thing is the chance to listen to the sound check for amature night at club privileged college kids who think they know half a shit about freestyle and laugh ourselves sick  
TG: so i just wanted to check in and see what was up  
TG: make sure you didnt fall down a well or anything on your way over  
TG: in which case im all ready and rearing to be the lassie to your little timmy  
TG: luxurious coat flapping in the breeze as i search desperately for anyone fluent in bark once for yes and twice for no  
AT: oH FFUCK THAT WAS, tODAY,  
AT: SHIT }:(  
TG: oh good youre alive  
TG: my fluffy tail is awag with happiness  
AT: i FORGOT,  
AT: i CANT BELEIVE I fUCKING FORGOT,  
TG: no worries bro it happens to the best of us  
AT: nOOOOO DAVE THIS IS TERRIBLE,  
AT: i'M TERRRRRRRIBLE,  
AT: i WAS SUPP9SED TO MEET YOU AND THEN I DIDN’T, mESSAGE YOU AND,  
AT: gOD I’M SUCH, a FUCKUP,,  
TG: woah woah time out and back the fuck up  
TG: its not the end of the universe  
TG: been there done that remember this shits nothing  
TG: its one sound check there was one last month and theres another one next month  
TG: like a clockwork of douches  
TG: a veritable tide of posers rising and falling with the moon  
TG: its okay  
TG: really  
AT: IM sORRY ITS JUS,T  
AT: tODSY JUST HANS’T BEEN, THEBEST DAY  
TG: no shit  
TG: you normally don’t typo all to hell like this  
TG: and drop key parts of your quirk what the fuck  
TG: wait  
TG: youre pulling arent you  
TG: fuck how bad a day was it  
AT: dAVE iTS NOT,  
AT: i DON’T WANT TO TALK, aBOUT IT  
AT: OR THiNK ABOUT IT, aNY MORE THAN, i ALREADY AM WHICH,  
AT: iS A WHOLE FUCKINGLOT, yOU KNOW, aND I JUST,  
AT: fUCK  
AT: I THOUGH I WAS GETTING, bETTER  
AT: buT I WAS JUST, bEING, STUPID, lIKE ALWAYS, aND NOW I CANT,  
AT: I SHOULD HAVE, mESSAGED YOU BUT, i FORGOT,  
AT: iFORGOT i FORGOT AND, nOW I CAN’t,  
AT: sTOP }:(  
TG: okay you know what fuck this im coming over  
AT: whAT,  
TG: put your bra on and hide your buckets or whatever it is yall do to make yourselves acceptable for polite company   
AT: WHAT nO,   
TG: gotta throw some shit in my sylladex hang on  
AT: dAVE NO YOU DON’t, hAVE TO  
TG: fuck have to tavros  
TG: i never do anything with you because i have to  
TG: at least  
TG: not in the way you mean  
TG: now if you want to talk have to as in  
TG: if i dont i think i might for real explode  
TG: then sure  
TG: i might be more than a little bit compelled  
TG: now hang tight my bro  
TG: im coming  
TG: the fuck  
TG: over  
TG: <>

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering adiosToreador [AT] at 2:39--

 

**== >**

 

You pace, breath and tread heavy as you try to drown out the sounds of your swollen bloodpusher slamming too hard too fast against the prison of your ribs. Shame keeps your hands below the level of your ears, but that still leaves your eyebrows and eyelashes well within reach. Your eyelashes are too slick to grip carefully with your claws—it’s been _that_ sort of bad day—but the prickle of them against the pads of your fingers provides its own sick sort of comfort. 

You don’t want to think about your eyebrows, the deliberate destruction you wrought because the alternative felt so much fucking worse (you _really_ don’t want to think about how fucked you must be to pull conciously, as opposed to how fucked you are all the times when pulling is mostly subconscious motor memory). It feels like they’re still there, your well-trained fingers sensitive to the brush of even the tiniest of hairs, but you know with a sick sort of certainty that it’s just a trick of blind touch. Know that when you gather up the courage to finally look at yourself in the mirror the right one at least will be all but gone, the left splotchy and misshapen (you aren’t as precise with your non-dominant hand), and how in the hell are you going to hide _that_ , huh? 

What the fuck are you going to do _now_? 

You match your steps to your memory of Dave’s stride, calculate the distance from his place to yours. If you suck it up, if you just _get a grip already FUCK_ , you could do some rough damage control with your clippers, just enough to hide the shock of grey skin peeking through the black fuzz of new growth, mute it with the familiarity of your usual haircut. Meet Dave at the door with a sheepish smile, apologize for the misunderstood panic, all the while carefully ignoring the horrorshow of your eyebrows and the blood-dark patches where you’d pulled so hard and so frantic that the skin had flared in swollen protest, praying silently that he does the same. 

You could—

You could—

You spend so long trying to convince yourself that there’s time, there’s time and you can _fix this_ , that when Dave’s even knocking cuts through the silence of your hive all you’ve managed to do is to splash some cold water over your face and the sides of your head, trembling fingers blindly slicking and styling what hair remains into something you hope doesn’t look half as pathetic as you feel. 

Opening the door for him turns out to be the easy part. 

You keep your gaze low—it’s a rare human that you can meet eye to eye without having to duck your chin into your chest, and Dave is certainly no exception—until you realize that that just puts your damage on display front and fucking center. You straighten to your full height, embarrassed, stare fixed and unblinking on a glimmering point of nothingness in the middle distance, lips hard and thin over your fangs to keep yourself from chewing at them. 

You expect him to swear ( _Jesus, Tav, why the hell…_ ), to sigh (disappointment, despair, dejection, _disgust_ ), but he’s silent, his stance solid. You don’t actually _see_ Dave reach up, just register the pause of movement as his hand hovers—small, human, briefly uncertain—over the curve of your bicep before settling in the softest of paps. 

“C’mon,” he says, grip shifting to cup at the hard jut of your elbow. “Let’s go inside.”

He steers you down the hallway—or you pull him in, your motions so smooth and in synch despite the size difference it’s hard to untangle just who is guiding who—and into the open space of your lounge block. He tugs at your arm until you lean down enough for him to shift his firm hand up to your shoulder, where the pull becomes a push, guiding you down to sit cross-legged on the floor. 

“Where’s your adaptor strip?” he asks, glancing around. You point, and he huffs at the distance, grumbling quietly to himself as he leaves your side just long enough to fetch it. You watch with increasing confusion as he plugs it into a nearby outlet and starts unloading his sylladex: cables, boxes of records, his turn tables (not the nice set he uses for shows, but the ones his brother gave him when he was young, the battered second-hand set he learned to mix on), speakers, yet more records. 

Something in your chest loosens, if only momentarily, and you rumble with relief. You’ve been aching and desperate with the instinct to pile, but the floor of your hive is clean of the sort of random clutter that’s good for jam sessions but an obstacle on those days when your prosthetics are acting up and your body is too sore and tired to manage them properly, forcing you back into your four-wheeled device.  
You think for a moment how odd and intimate and _perfect_ it is for Dave to have brought his own pile materials, but then he’s plugging everything together and arranging it in a half circle around you, like he’s setting up for an actual gig instead of this sad excuse for a pity party. 

“So let’s be honest, this isn’t working,” Dave says, warm throated and conversational, and you just… Freeze. He’s riffling through the records, back to you, and you’re grateful for that modicum of privacy as you dig ragged claws into the carpet to keep from burying them someplace more tender, jaw clenched and teeth bared in defensive reflex. 

So you were right. Dave _doesn’t_ really want to be your moirail, probably didn’t even understand what he was fucking doing when he signed off with that stupid fucking diamond, but like a pale-struck moron you just went ahead and—

“This collabing over pesterchum shit, I don’t think I’m—" He turns, each hand gripping a colorful stack of battered vinyl, and frowns at the shaking tension in your shoulders, the gleaming points of your teeth. “Dude.” He drops the records, hands coming up to ghost over your chest, down what he can reach of your back. Your skin feels like it’s on fire and you just want to _run_ , but when you risk a quick glance at Dave’s face his eyes are round with genuine worry behind his shades. “ _Dude_. Breathe for me, okay? This shit ain’t gonna work if you pass out before we even get a chance to try it. C’mon, in—“

“I’m fine,” you growl. Then, because you can’t help yourself: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this was a mistake, I…”

“ _Breathe_ ,” Dave repeats, and you find yourself following his orders despite your better judgment, hating the ever present warmth of his hands even as they provide steady comfort, rubbing small, slow circles through the fabric of your shirt, fingers splayed to fit between the ridges of your expanding ribs. 

Once you’ve calmed Dave seats himself alongside you on the floor, picking up the scattered records and fanning them for you to get a glimpse at their covers. One set you recognize as some of Dave’s favorite tried-and-true sources for hooks and baselines, the kind of stuff that forms the backbone of his more traditional mixes and what the two of you most often practice rapping with when you meet up in-person. The second is literal junk, records too scratched even for DJing and the kind of shit filler albums that are inevitable when buying old vinyl by the lot. Dave likes them because sometimes there’s a true gem of a hook hidden in with all the stoned 70s crooners, off-key country twanging, and copycat overproduced studio rap, the kind of oddities that makes his sampling style so unique, but more often than not they’re just out-and-out-bad, unenjoyable even in the context of irony. 

“What’s this?” you ask, gesturing at the records.

Dave shifts beside you, tucks his hands into his lap. Like he’s nervous. “I wanted to give you a choice. I want to help you, Tavros, but I’m not sure the best way how. We can try an old school, free style rap and feelings throwdown if you want, but some of the things you said when you first told me about…” He shrugs. “Y’know. Why you do it. How it makes you feel. I’ve been thinking about that, and while I sort of understand, I don’t… I can’t _know_ , I don’t want to pretend and only hurt you more, but it reminded me of something.”

He slides one of the junk albums out of its sleeve, fits it into place B-side up. The needle drops, filling your hive with the white noise crackle and pop of dusty vinyl. Dave adjusts the needle’s position, finds the middle of something blandly jazzy and backed by a soulless drum machine, lets the record spin for just long enough for the inane and tuneless chorus to kick in ( _Baby baby, oh baby, my baby baby_ ), before catching it and pulling it back in a slow, deliberate scratch. 

It’s loud and unpleasant, sending a shudder down your spine. Dave releases the record ( _Baby mine oh baby oh_ ), scratches again, dragging out the sound until it becomes something otherworldly, something electric and animal and tactile, vibrating in your thorax.

“Like this?” he asks, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the noise. “Is it like this?”

He frowns when you shake your head (you stare at the turntables, transfixed), slumping a little against your side (your mouth waters with familiar bitterness), but you catch him by the wrist, slip your claws in between his long, delicate fingers, and scratch the record again. 

Back, release, back, back, release. Push the record forward, chorus nothing now but an indistinguishable, high-pitched jumble, release ( _baby_ ), drag it back again around and around and around and the black vinyl glints up at you glossy and too reminiscent of other temptations so you close your eyes and focus on the feel of the grooves beneath your burning fingertips. 

Dave’s rig has faders built in, but you ignore the gleaming rows of knobs and switches in favor of the primal beat you’re building, push and drag, push and drag, scratching, skipping, and stuttering in time with your throbbing bile sack. You’re pressing so hard that your claws scratch the record for real, gouging a long, ugly line so deep that it cracks the record entirely. You wince, hands drawn up in an instinctive apology, but Dave just clears the mess away and slips a new album out of its sleeve.

“Scratch ‘em.” He fits another record onto the second turntable. “Smash ‘em. Hell, Tavros, if this works at all, you can…”

You don’t hear what else you’re allowed to do with the records, too caught up in how you can feel the static vibrate up and down what’s left of your spine to jangle low and soothing at the bottom of your brain pan. 

Both hands now, working together. Little hitching skips like sobs, back and back and back, the plucking rhythm that you can never seem to escape, sound almost solid enough for you to gather it up and touch it to your lips to better feel the barely wet prick of its torn-out roots. Just the right, now, left scratching backward in a loop again, slow and fast, slow and fast, scratching slow and slow and slow and _endless_ until the panting, grating, howling _nothingness_ of it numbs you over to its own ugliness, its anger, its black, black hate.

 _This is what it’s like,_ you want to say, ribs heaving and bloodpusher a hot heavy stone in your chest, can’t. _This this this_. 

Dave hears you, anyway. 

 

**== >**

 

Later, after you’ve broken two more records and burnt yourself hollow on the sound of backwards static, Dave will haul you into your ablution chamber to tend properly to your blood-rimmed eyes and tear-swollen flesh. Still riding the high of emotional catharsis, you’ll ask for Dave’s help in shaving the sides of your head, even though you’re more than capable of doing it yourself. He’ll cut stars and lightning bolts into what remains of your fuzz, but not before he accidentally swipes off a chunk of your mohawk with his first inexpert pass with the electric clippers. You’ll catch sight of his naked panic in the mirror and laugh, loud and booming off the tile, your honest delight startling even to you. He’ll smile back at your reflection, embarrassed but pleased, and carefully shave a diamond high on your left temple, where you and the whole world can see. 

Now, he tucks himself into your side, thigh warm along your leg for as far as you can feel it, small human frame barely clearing your shoulder. He listens, watches, stays, one arm curled around the small of your back, steady and patient.

He shouldn’t be strong enough to support you, but he does.


End file.
